along slowly, as was their nature, but Blane and Damon were with them, and they
were armed.
Fallon reined in and watched them approach the wagon. That Bellows man had
mentioned watching from a bluff, and undoubtedly somebody watched now. The
question was, how long would they wait?
When he put out his sign he would be asking for trouble. And he must face it
alone.
Chapter II
Morning came to Red Horse with lemon light in the eastern sky, throwing into
sharp relief the old weather-beaten buildings, aged by wind and sun; the warped
doors, the faded and scarcely legible signs that overhung the street.
The town was still, the hollow rooms without sound. Far up the street, beyond
where the reservoir lay, a road runner raced into view, teetered briefly on top
of a boulder, then vanished from sight.
Macon Fallon sat on his black horse and looked up the street.
Could he do it? Dared he even try? Could he lift this town from the sleep of
years and make it suddenly take on a bloom of activity? The first arrival might
expose the whole shoddy affair, for any chance comer might be one of those who
had known Buell’s Bluff in its brief heyday.
What he planned was a swindle, and up to now it had not been in him to swindle
anyone. Yet he had to keep in mind that what he needed was a stake, enough money
to establish himself somewhere, to locate and stock a ranch, to buy land.
He was tired, suddenly very tired, of playing cards in cheap, dirty saloons and
listening to the drunken babble of men who should know better. This town was his
chance, his one big chance.
Why worry about what would happen to whoever bought his gold claims? They would
be adult, in possession of as many senses as he was. They could look around.
They would not be forced to buy.
What difference could it make to the Blanes, the Damons, and their like—the
people he would use for window-dressing for his scheme? Had he not stopped them,
some of them would have died out there on the Sink where others had died before
them. Here at least, they had a chance. Or did they?
He studied the town with care. First, he must give to this shabby, deserted town
an appearance of prosperity. He must open the Yankee Saloon for business. He
must open Deming’s Emporium. Blane, he had learned, had once been a blacksmith,
and he might be talked into returning to his former trade.
He would clean the brush out of the street, set up a new hitching rail, clean
the stone reservoir, repaint the signs along the street. He could trim up some
of the trees, and might even transplant some desert flowers to give the town a
more homey touch. The site was excellent, even picturesque. Nature had artfully
arranged the trees, and he knew just what needed to be done to give the town the
look he wanted.
The signs were almost erased by wind, rain, and blown sand, but at the edge of
the dry lake he had seen some iodine weed growing—it was sometimes called
inkweed. From this the Indians made a black dye for decorating pottery and
blankets, and he could use it on the signs.
He knew the claims people were likely to buy, those unknown for whom he baited
his trap. He knew which claims had the best outward indications, and it was
these he would stake for himself. Once staked, he would do a bit of work on each
so the dumps would have a fresh look to them; and then, once he had sold those
claims, he would be down the trail as fast as his horse could carry him.
Damon had kept store before this, and he had brought with him a small stock of
goods: he had a few dozen bolts of cloth, clothing of the rougher sort, tools,
nails, scissors, needles, thread, and such odds and ends. No doubt the Blanes
could find something they could add to the stock.
The food supplies in the wagons would last a couple of weeks if pieced out with
meat; after that they must secure supplies, perhaps by barter, from travelers.
He knew that there used to be deer and Big Horn sheep in the mountains, and with
luck he could bring in some game. He wanted to look back up that wash, anyway.
Turning in his saddle, he looked again at the flat below the town. In his mind’s
eye he saw it waving with corn, with planted crops. There was good grazing there
now, of the rougher sort, but with water that flat would be transformed.
Tomorrow he would ride down and choose a spot for a dam.
Now he rode up to the Yankee Saloon and dismounted, trailing his bridle reins.
He went inside for a quick, daylight survey of the premises. Then he took the
black horse around back where the trickle from the reservoir watered a small
patch of grass. He picketed the horse there and went back inside.
In the mop closet he found a broom and, opening the two doors and the one window
that could be opened, he swept out the place. When he had finished sweeping he
built a fire out back and put water on to boil in a big black kettle.
Little but personal possessions had been taken away. It was as if the few
inhabitants had not wanted anything to hamper their departure. Travel across the
Sink was a trial in any case, and nobody wanted a heavy load. It was simpler to
leave everything behind.
Macon Fallon glanced at himself in the mirror with a wry expression. He had
always told himself work was for fools, and here he was, taking the biggest job
he had ever encountered and, surprisingly enough, he was enjoying it.
“When a man gets to enjoying hard work,” he said to himself, “he ought to shoot
himself.” But he did not feel that way.
The sound of footsteps made him turn his head, and he saw Ginia Blane and Ruth
Damon. He straightened up from his work.
“You may tell your father the store is across the street, Miss Damon. Your
father can clean it up and open with whatever he has to put on the shelves.”
He glanced at Ginia, although he had hoped it would not be necessary. She made
him uncomfortable. “If your father wishes to repair that wheel he will find
tools in the blacksmith shop. I hope he will see fit to go into business there.”
“What are you going to do?” Ginia asked, too politely. “Shoot people?”
“Your brother doesn’t approve of me, Miss Blane, and neither do you. How
fortunate for me that it does not matter. However,” he added, “no matter what
your brother believes, had I not come along he would now have two badly burned
feet.”
Ginia Blane had heard chiefly the remark that it did not matter what she
thought, and she had not expected that. Like most very pretty girls, she was
accustomed to men making an effort to please her. Most of the boys or men she
had known would have been embarrassed by her sarcasm, and even had they been
ready with a sharp reply, they would not have made it. To be brushed aside so
easily irritated her.
“I’m sure,” she said stiffly, “that nothing you do will have the slightest
interest for me.”
“Good!” he said cheefully. “Now, unless you want to become dishwasher in a
saloon, I suggest you run along and play.”
Her mouth opened, but the words would not come; so turning sharply on her heel,
she led the way across the street. She was furious. She told herself that never,
never under any circumstances, would she speak to him again.
While the water was heating, Fallon assembled all the glasses and bottles he
could find, and cleaned out the sink. Next, he found a barrel, tightened the
hoops as best he could and filled the barrel with water. Promptly water ran in
streams from all the cracks but given time, it would swell tight.
Wherever he went he kept his Winchester beside him, taking it from room to room
as he worked, or as he studied the work to be done. When he needed that rifle he
would need it fast, and he was under no illusions about Blane or Damon. They
would not realize the necessity to help him until it was too late. They had
lived in a far tamer world than his. But he could not complain about their work.
With the exception of Al Damon, they all pitched in and worked hard.
Dividing his time between the saloon and the street, Fallon worked from before
daylight until after sundown. Stripped to the waist, his lean, powerful body
bronzed by the sun, he removed the brush and weeds from the street, and made a